


RSVP

by 27dragons, scribblywobblytimeylimey, tisfan



Series: Take Note [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, tie-in stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1845670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblywobblytimeylimey/pseuds/scribblywobblytimeylimey, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to its nature as an epistolary story, there are some scenes that <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1830988/chapters/3932857">Take Note (Nota Bene)</a> simply can't show, but which we wanted to write anyway. These are definite tie-ins and side-stories. We'll indicate which chapters from Take Note are being referenced, but these stories are not going to make sense if you haven't read Take Note.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Between the Lines

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Take Note (Nota Bene)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1830988) by [27dragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons), [scribblywobblytimeylimey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblywobblytimeylimey/pseuds/scribblywobblytimeylimey), [tisfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan). 



**Companion to "Take Note (Nota Bene)" chapters[19](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1830988/chapters/3960223)-[20](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1830988/chapters/3960235).**

The thing about handwritten correspondence -- whether it's a good thing or a bad thing, Tony's not sure, but it's a _thing_ \-- is that it's so much more revealing than typed communication. There are things that become apparent, when you know a person's handwriting well. When their letters become small and cramped, or big and loopy. When they slant harder, or the spaces between words gets wider, or the lines become uneven.

You can see when the hand holding the pen was unsteady. When the writer was wielding that pen with, perhaps, more than the usual... passion.

Tony is often careless, but when he finally sees something, he sees all of its details. He can't not.

Which means that he's still sitting here, hours later, unsure how to respond to Steve's latest letter. The one with the fascinating little Freudian slip: "a subconscious desire to tie you up." Jesus. Tony can't not see the little wobble the pen made in the loop of the _y_. He can't fail to notice that the cross in the _t_ was made with an especially heavy hand. It's hard for him to miss the unusually large flourish of the _p_.

He can't help thinking about it, either, because let's face it, Steve is fucking _hot_ , and he's been wandering around Tony's tower for a while now in those stupidly tight shirts, showing off his enhanced muscles. Tony can't help but wonder what it would be like to have those muscles hold him down, to let Steve restrain him. Strip him bare. Take him apart and leave him begging for more.

What would Steve do, Tony wonders, if he took that letter straight to Steve's room, right now, and said, "I understand you'd like to tie me up."  

Would he stammer out a clarification as unbelievable as the panicked email he'd sent?

No, Steve is nothing if not bold, the cocky son of a bitch. He'd get that gleam in his eyes like he gets when he thinks someone is thwarting him, and he'd pin Tony's arms to the wall with those big, strong hands, and he'd say, "You got a problem with that?" And Tony would say something snarky and provocative like, "Only if you don't get started soon."

And god, the things Tony can imagine Steve doing to him with that body... Tony wants it all. He spares half a guilty thought to Pepper, but Pep couldn't force Tony to be still while sucking his cock, couldn't fuck him fast and deep and hard, and Christ, but that's a lovely thought. Tony imagines Steve tying him down and fucking him senseless, then falling asleep half on top of him and waking up an hour later to do it all again. Tony imagines Steve letting him turn the tables, too, locking down those arms and fucking Steve's beautiful mouth, or stroking Steve off, teasing, bringing Steve over and over to the edge and then backing away just to watch that ivory skin flush and hear the sounds Steve would make... God.

Well. The thing about handwriting analysis is that it's not terribly precise. Those words were written with passion, no doubt, but that passion was far more likely to be irritation than lust, so Tony's imagination is the only place those thoughts can go.

And in the meantime, he's still sitting here, staring at Steve's letter and wondering how to respond.


	2. Chapter 2

**Companion to Take Note (Nota Bene) Chapters[18](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1830988/chapters/3959620) and [19](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1830988/chapters/3960223).**

 

The internet is simultaneously the best and worst thing about this century, Steve’s decided.

Really, it’s all Tony’s fault. If he hadn’t left Steve feeling all out of the loop about modern slang, he would never have looked it up.

As it turns out, the internet has all sorts of explanations of all sorts of things. Almost everything turned out to be sexual.

The S/M thing is apparently part of BDSM. Steve skims the Wikipedia page, along with a few other links.

 

Those other links are terrifying.

 

It’s like if he were back in 1940 again and could look through a little, rectangular window into another country, or the future, or Asgard. This is a tropical rainforest; Times Square lit up with glittering, electronic billboards; a floating landscape revolving in the sky.

Only this bizarre future-setting is almost further beyond the realm of imagination. It’s full of leather, buckles, straps, whips. Everything is black. Even the ‘toys’ look like no toys Steve ever saw. They’re black as tar, too, and so oddly shaped. He doesn’t like to think about how you’re supposed to play with them.

He asks Google what exactly is so appealing about all this, and reads some very enlightening responses that make him worry for the state of the world.

“JARVIS?” He says aloud, but tentatively. “Do people really like doing this?”

“Yes, Sir,” JARVIS replies from somewhere in the ceiling, and Steve jumps. “I’m assured it’s quite pleasurable.”

“You’re assured?” Steve repeats, eyebrow raised, but JARVIS doesn’t say anything else.

So he keeps reading. He even figures out how to use Google images.

It turns his face bright red. The people he's looking at aren't quite naked, but it's more than enough to make him uncomfortable.

It seems to be all women, too, even though one page said fellas liked it equally. He asks about that, too.

That’s when he finds a very explicit page full of dames talking about their husbands. Steve feels like he’s peeping through a keyhole. It’s uncomfortable, but not quite enough to want to stop.

He goes back to the page with the equipment, trying not to think of the lists of things to do to people who are tied up.

“At ease,” he mutters at his crotch.

He needs a cold shower and to go to bed. It’s not really surprising that people in the 21st century have so much sex, and seem so relaxed about it, if they all have this sort of thing at their fingertips.

He was right about one thing, he decides - in this era, it’s a heck of a lot harder to be good.


	3. Chapter 3

**Companion to "Take Note (Nota Bene)" Chapter[39](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1830988/chapters/3972769)**

 

Steve is pacing because he just got done tearing his bedsheet into strips, each an inch thick.

His hands are still shaking, but not too much that he can’t try to write again. 

_Dear Tony._

He crosses it out; stands up; sits back down.

_Dear Tony._

And again. _Dear Tony,_

_I…_

A cry cracks out of him and he clasps his hand around his face.

“God, get it together,” he groans. “Get it together, Rogers…”

But he’s shaking like he hasn’t since he came off the ice.

He kicks the chair out from behind him, lets his knees hit the floor. He gets his elbows up wide on the writing desk, clasps his palms together, and rocks them back and forth against his forehead when the words don’t come.

“…Please,” he manages eventually. “Please, God, let him be okay.”

He hears the slightest sniffle. It’s a sound he’s heard from himself precisely once before. It’s a sound he hasn’t heard since Bucky.

His head cracks into the desk, and he’s never heard _these_ sounds before; like half of him is trying to howl, and the other half is wrestling with his lungs, leaving his shoulders tossing atop them like on rough waves.

He cracks his pen in two, throws it at the wall, and reaches for another.

 

_Dear Tony,_

_God damn it, Tony._

_I don’t want that to be the last letter I ever wrote to you._

_What are we going to do without you? What’s SHIELD going to do without you? The tower? What about the world?_

_My God; you think you’re_ **_so_ ** _important, and you have_ **_no idea_ ** _how right you are._

_Right after I wrote you all those stupid letters. Why couldn’t I just keep pretending you’re a just a soldier?_

 

There’s a knock at his door. One of them has bitten their cowardly silence.

Steve presses his fingers onto his eyes; the back of his hands; his shirt; rubs them with his wrist. “Come in.” He stands up.

His voice sounds almost normal.

“Hey, big fella,” Bruce says, opening the door to slip in.

“What am I supposed to do,” Steve says, when he didn’t mean to say anything at all. His voice cracks.

Bruce leans back against the wall. His breathe escapes him as a tired sigh. “That’s not for any of us to say. We don’t know, either.”

“I need you to tell me what I need to do,” Steve says - admits - to the floor.

Bruce moves closer. “Eat,” He says, firmly but quietly. “Drink. Rest.”

Steve’s legs can’t hold him. Bruce follows him to the sofa, sits down, puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder, says “I know.”

Steve cracks again, says _“No,”_ buries his head in his hands.

The room swims around them, filling his eyes and ears. Bruce’s voice is above the water.

“I know. I know you need him.”

Steve wasn’t aware he’d speaking. He swallows. “I lost everything. I lost everything. And he put it back together, bringing me here. I can’t…everyone…”

Bruce rubs his shoulder. “Everyone is still here. You need to be strong for them.”

Strong for them now Tony’s gone.

He holds back Bruce’s arm, and Bruce starts to speak, barely even a syllable, and barely a syllable comes out of Steve’s own mouth to interrupt him.

He stares at the wall, his ears growing louder and louder.

“God damn it,” he shouts, fisting his hand right into the sofa until it comes up with clouds of white. “God _DAMN IT!_ ”

He’s on his feet.

Bruce is silent behind him, and Steve is a huge green monster.

“Okay,” Bruce says quietly.

His feet fall softly behind Steve. “I’m going to leave you alone, now.”

Steve presses the back of his wrist to his eyes. “Yeah.”

His voice is dry.

Bruce closes the door, and Steve walks over to his desk.

He tears the letters into shreds and watches them fall to the floor; then he follows them.

He picks the scraps up in his palm and sifts them through his fingers, over and over, until he falls asleep right there on the carpet.


	4. Naked

**This takes place after Chapter[43](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1830988/chapters/3974713)/[44](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1830988/chapters/3974821). Refers to Chapters: [36](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1830988/chapters/3970147), [38](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1830988/chapters/3972043), [39](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1830988/chapters/3972769), [44](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1830988/chapters/3974821)**

 

Tony steps off the plane and for just an instant, it feels like coming home from Afghanistan, and he wonders if he's going to have another damn panic attack right there on the tarmac.

He stops, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing slowly through gritted teeth. He can feel Pepper's warmth at his back, knows she's trying to decide if it will make things better or worse if she puts a hand on his shoulder.

He doesn't know.

He wants to lean back against her, put himself into her so-capable hands and let her take care of everything.

Pepper has taken care of him since the first day they met. She'd come into his office to interview for the PA position and he'd been late (of course he had) and when he came in ten minutes later, she'd already cleaned up the mess on his desk and started building a schedule block and before he could even open his mouth she handed him a cup of coffee and told him that he'd need to change his shirt before the board meeting in twenty minutes.

The idea of Pepper _not_ taking care of him any more aches, it aches _exactly_ like the hole in his chest aches. He has two holes in his chest now, and he's pretty lucky to have survived even the first one. This second one might succeed where the first failed.

But if she touches him now, he's going to fall apart, completely fall apart right here in front of the whole world, and that's Bruce and Steve coming toward them and Tony _cannot_ fall apart in front of Steve, he can _not_. So he takes a big step forward before Pepper can make up her mind, and because Pepper knows him better than anyone else in the world, she understands and doesn't try to catch up.

Bruce is a sight for sore eyes, smiling and looking relieved. Steve, on the other hand… Tony knows it's impossible, but Steve looks like he's got a hangover, huge dark circles under red-rimmed eyes. And he has a little worried line between his eyebrows, like he thinks Tony might be a mirage that will shimmer and disappear at any second. So when Bruce swings out his arm for what could be either a handshake or a hug, Tony takes the hug option, and pulls Steve into it, too.

And _god_ but it feels good, the solid warmth of his friends supporting him, so he holds on a little longer than a casual greeting dictates. And then Steve's forehead drops against the top of Tony's head and Steve breathes, "Tony. Oh, thank God," and what had been a hesitant arm around Tony's shoulders tightens almost painfully, even though Steve is always eerily aware of his own strength, so Tony lets it go longer still, soaking up the contact desperately.

*** 

When they get back to the tower, Pepper calmly takes her bags to one of the guest suites, and Tony's back to feeling that second hole in his chest, back to being on the ragged edge of breakdown, so he only waves a casual greeting to Natasha and Clint as he strides through the common area on his way to the private elevator up to his floor. (Clint doesn't look up from his video game, but Natasha gives him a cool, measuring look that Tony is pretty sure translates to, "Welcome home; please stop trying quite so obviously to get yourself killed." It's a look he's seen from her before, but at least this time she doesn't hand him a martini and make a suggestive comment, so he thinks it marks a definite improvement in their relationship.)

He pauses at the door to his quarters to read the message scrawled there. _God, Barton_ , he thinks, because Tony is suddenly uncomfortably aware of the message hiding under the annoyance and threats. Acting on autopilot, he takes the waiting letter out of his mailbox and goes into his bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed for a long few minutes, rubbing his hand over his face and trying to settle his thoughts.

Absently, Tony opens the letter in his hand and skims it.

Then he reads it more slowly. And again, his throat tight.

This wasn't just revealing. This was… _naked_. If Steve had opened a vein for his first letter about Howard, he'd all but carved out his own heart for this one.

And then offered it to Tony.

To _Tony_ , for god's sake, as if Tony is any fit recipient of such admiration. As if Tony can be trusted with anyone's heart.

Tony's hands are shaking so hard that the paper slips through his fingers, fluttering to the floor. It doesn't matter; every word is burned onto Tony's retinas.

He wants to cry.

He wants to laugh.

He wants to scream.

He needs… Bruce. Bruce is calm. Bruce never turns Tony away. Bruce has never made Tony ashamed of what he was, nor held him up to the white-hot light of esteem. Bruce is... safe.

He can't tell Bruce about _this_ , no. But he will tell Bruce about the last few weeks, about Killian and the Mandarin and Extremis, and talking to Bruce will be calming.

And then, Tony thinks distantly, opening his safe with trembling hands to add Steve's letter to the growing pile in the back, he will go down to his lab, and lose himself in work, where it is safe and he won't have to think about the holes that keep opening in his chest.


	5. Chapter 5

Precedes Chapter [57](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1830988/chapters/3991588).

 

 

"JARVIS, what time is it?"

"Two AM, sir." JARVIS somehow manages to convey disapproval and disappointment while providing nothing but dry fact. Tony is really quite proud of him.

Two in the morning means his chances of encountering anyone else are about as slim as they can be, so Tony stands up and stretches, wincing as his spine crackles with stiffness, and leaves the workshop.

Food would be good. There will be some leftovers in the fridge, maybe. No, heating anything up is too slow. Just a bowl of cereal, and then he'll go back down to the workshop and hide until it's all over.

He is stretching up on his toes to put the box away when, "Hey, you're up!" Tony squawks in surprise and whirls around, undignified and probably spraining something.

Well, of course it's Steve. Tony drags in a breath. "Jesus, don't sneak up on a guy like that. Shit. What are you doing out this late?"

Steve's eyebrows lift, just a fraction. "Just getting some water. Isn't it late for you, too?"

"Just getting warmed up," Tony says, trying for cheerful.

The look Steve throws his way as he reaches up into the cabinet for a glass suggests that Tony hasn't quite hit the mark. "Glad to see you out now, though," Steve says. "Maybe you can join us for a meal or two."

"Maybe," Tony hedges, and stuffs a spoonful of cereal into his mouth so he can keep his foot out of it.

Steve looks at him sidelong, his long fingers running around the rim of his glass thoughtfully. "So Pepper's leaving tomorrow." He says it gently, a knife so sharp Tony can barely feel it slide between his ribs.

"Uh-huh," he manages. "Worked out the last of the kinks last night. This morning. Something like that. She'll be glad to get away." Steve's brows are drawing close together and Tony can't deal with Steve's worry right now, so he waves it away. "It's good, it's fine. The emotional baggage was starting to clutter the place up, right?"

"Tony," and Steve is suddenly close, _too close_ , and Tony's hands are starting to shake. _No. No, not now, not here. Stop it!_ He can't stop the shaking, milk and cereal sloshing out of the bowl, and he sets it on the counter quickly, folds his hands together to try to minimize the trembling. It doesn't help.

"Tony, are you okay?"

***

“Steve, please,” he says, and his voice is so high - so desperate, like even being close to Steve is grating right into him.

Steve’s cheeks feel cold. “I…I’m sorry.”

Tony frowns; wheezes. “What?” 

“For everything I wrote. I’m sorry,” he says quickly.

Tony’s shaking his head. “It’s not that. It’s…not…”

He turns away from Steve, crowding over the microwave, head bowed.

“Tony..?”

Tony waves his hand again like he’s a bomb waiting to go off. “Just…give me a minute.” His voice is frantic and he’s struggling to breathe.

"Tony?" It doesn't sound like they have a minute to spare - doesn't look that way either, the way Tony's shaking, eyes wide and staring. "What's going..?"

A tear slides right over the edge, right out of his wide open eye. Steve's lips part, interrupting himself. He tries to speak again, but it's clear Tony isn't hearing a word of it. "Tony?"

Steve's chest is tense - he's just standing there, not helping, and it's only getting worse. "JARVIS, what's going on?" He asks sharply, voice set for the battlefield so it doesn't shake. "Does he need an ambulance?"

Tony gives a loud choke.

***

Can't stop, fuck, he can't stop crying. He's not even entirely sure what he's crying  _about_. Pepper, Killian, Maya, Steve? None of it, all of it. All he knows is that his lungs ache from trying to draw a breath that isn't immediately sobbed away, his eyes burn from the ceaseless tears, his whole body is shuddering uncontrollably like he's going through detox.

He tries to distract himself, tries to pull himself together, for fuck's sake, he's not a  _child_  anymore. Presses his forehead to the cool tile and tries to focus on the cool feel of it against his skin. Tangles his hands in his hair and _yanks_ , trying to focus on the pain. Nothing helps. He's still gasping and wracked and wrecked as if he's watching the world end.

Warm hands slide over his shoulders and he tries to jerk away -- Jesus, this is not something to  _share_  -- but Steve is more than strong enough to refuse Tony's escape.

Steve curls his arms around Tony's shoulders and  _pulls_ , and like that, Tony is being held against Steve's warm, broad chest, his head tucked against Steve's shoulder. And god, the constant solidity of Steve's  _caring_  just unravels Tony even more. He needs to warn Steve to stop caring about him, needs to beg Steve to  _never_ stop caring. He stops fighting -- there's no point anyway -- and gives in, lets the pain wash over and through him, acid eating at his skin, and hopes there will be enough left to heal when it's past.

***

“Shh,” Steve says, “It’s okay.” He feels the crease forming between his eyebrows and forces himself to straighten it out, because it’s not okay; not so far as he can tell. “Everything’s going to be fine, Tony. I promise.”

Tony just breathes, in and out, face smothered to his chest. All Steve can see is his hair - his hand hovers above it, then settles on Tony’s shoulder and pats, slowly and awkwardly.

Tony stiffens, then continues to shake.

“It’s okay,” Steve insists mindlessly. “You’re back, Tony. You’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you. What, you think I’m going to let it?” He lets his chin rest on Tony’s head, because he’s already done this much. “You just got back, idiot,” he breathes into his hair, squeezing him once, tight.

They don’t move for a while. Tony cries quietly - every time his breathing picks up, Steve quells it with more firm shushing. “You know,” he says. He’s not really sure what he’s going to say next. “You know, I hadn’t lost anyone since I woke up. I’ve handled it before. I thought I would be fine.  Then you had to go and vanish. I - you know, I lost the whole world. If this new one disappears, I - well, doesn’t look like I’ll take it mighty well,” he jokes. “So you’d better promise us you’ll be okay, right? We’ll make sure of it. We need you back running this place. God knows they can’t rely on me for their jokes,” he jokes, again, and clears his throat.

Tony’s silent.

“Tony?”

He sags, just slightly, in Steve’s arms.

“Tony?”

Steve slips one wrist free in an instant, checks his pulse. It seems like far too long before he feels it.

Then Tony lets out a gentle snore.

Steve rolls his eyes painfully hard, but can’t help smiling. “Oookay.”

He lifts him gently under the arms and carries him through to the next room easily. He settles him onto the sofa, lying him out flat with his head up against the armrest, and then sits down beside his feet. He looks at him for just a second too long before he covers his eyes, pinching at his brow. “JARVIS?” He sighs.

“Yes, sir.”

“Care to jump in with an explanation?”

There’s only a moment of hesitation. “Sir has been displaying early signs of anxiety, panic, and PTSD, Captain.”

There’s a little crease between Tony’s brows, too, but his breathing is steady and he’s perfectly still.

Steve rubs his chin absently. “Jesus…”

“It’s highly common and, to be frank, somewhat overdue. However, when coupled with certain other predominant personality traits…”

“Not good for anyone, doubly bad for Stark,” Steve agrees. “Do we know what’s causing it? Is there anything we can do?”

“The best course of action would be consultation with professionals. However…”

“Yeah,” Steve says wearily. He gets the feeling he knows how that sentence is going to end.

Tony snuffles and shifts, eyes twitching slightly.

Steve catches himself halfway through a pained frown. “He should get some rest for now, right?”

“That is probably wise, sir.”

“Can we talk about this more when I’m back in my quarters?”

“As you wish, sir.”

“Okay.”

Steve wipes his hands on his jeans.

“I’m going to put him to bed,” he says carefully. “Is that okay, JARVIS? Is it alright to take him into his room?”

He probably imagines the pause. “I will momentarily disable locks and alarms on Sir’s quarters.”

Steve picks him up easily, lowers him gently over one shoulder, making every move as slow as he can, listening for changes in Tony’s breathing.

When he reaches Tony’s door, it takes a long moment before he can even touch the handle. It seems like such an invasion - and right after he’d asked that nobody look into his own room. God, someone having to carry him in there would not be fun for anyone.

He’s never even thought about Tony’s room - what it would be like inside. What he might find.

He opens the door before his heart can race and resolves to keep his head down.

But it’s almost like stepping into a hotel room. The air is pleasantly cool and clear, though the windows are closed. Steve searches for a light switch, then gives up. “JARVIS,” he whispers. “Lights 35%?”

There’s just enough light to see that the room is as bare as it looked in the glow from the corridor. Like an upmarket hotel, he thinks again; only the prints on the wall probably aren’t prints.

He tugs his eyes away from them. Maybe someday, if he asks nicely. Of all the things to get distracted by.

He pulls back the covers, somehow still afraid he’s going to uncover something too intimate. _Like what?_ He asks himself. _A book? A diary? Squirrelled-away food?_ But, as ever, the sheets are clean and pressed, smooth and pale grey. The room doesn’t even have a scent to it - Stark clearly hasn’t stepped in here, let alone slept in this bed, for weeks - if not longer.

Steve decides against taking off any of Tony’s clothes. The jeans will be uncomfortable, but the t-shirt looks well-worn and fit for sleeping in.

He slides him right in so he won’t roll straight out again, and can’t help wondering _where_ Tony’s slept this whole time, and if it’s even been horizontal.

Smoothing out the covers and tucking them gently around him, Steve notices that little brow crease is still there. Almost without realizing, he presses his thumb to it as if trying to flatten it out.

He stands up, turning away quickly.

The only sign of inhabitance in the room is a polished wood desk. It has a silver device on it - probably for holograms - and a couple of regular laptops, too. One drawer is slightly open, but Steve can’t see what’s inside, and there are a few loose pens and pages with nothing more than equations, quick sketches, and crosshatched cubes.

Steve is about to force himself to leave when he spots the paper-shredder by the desk.

He _shouldn’t_ , but his heart thuds, and since he hasn’t seen any of his letters anywhere - he _shouldn’t_ , but he nudges the top off it.

The inside is full of gratings; snow made of cheap, white paper.

Steve lets out his breath. There’s not a single flash of the gorgeous, off-white paper Tony gave him to write his letters.

He shakes his head at himself, replacing the lid.

Then he stands up and walks out the door without looking back. When he gets to his room, he tells JARVIS in an undertone to dim Stark’s lights to zero.


End file.
